


The Soul has Bandaged Moments

by wimberries



Category: Pyscho Break (Video Game), The Evil Within (Video Game), The Evil Within 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Art, F/M, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Poetry, Obscura gets a little jealous, Reader-Insert, Video Game, but mostly poetry, but she's okay, mostly shameless romances with Stefano, oh well, there is some Shakespeare in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-01-26 10:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wimberries/pseuds/wimberries
Summary: The Soul has Bandaged moments—When too appalled to stir—She feels some ghastly Fright come upAnd stop to look at her—Salute her, with long fingers—Caress her freezing hair—Sip, Goblin, from the very lipsThe Lover–hovered–o’er—Unworthy, that a thought so meanAccost a Theme–so-fair—





	1. O Villain, Villain

 

 

When you had received your first assignment after years of working for Mobius, you could never have anticipated being tormented ceaselessly by a colossal, circular saw wielding aberration that could only be crafted by the hands of the devil himself. You were awaiting a dilapidated town, not a town so torn that City Hall was suspended above you, askew on its own mass of broken land. You hadn't expected the skylines to bleed shades of purple and red as if someone had thrown their angry fists at the sky. Big clouds surrounded you, pregnant with what seemed to promise rainfall but it never came; only the distant roar of the thunder and the lingering groaning of a tremendous eye in the sky with the pupil of a camera lens. 

 

Yes, a big eye in the sky surrounded by dark tendrils of toxic, fleshy matter that spawned more of the infected or the "Lost," as the others had referred to them. 

 

You toss yourself into some bushes in your best attempt to hide from the beast that chased you, your mind struggling to remember exactly how you managed to land yourself in such an unfortunate situation. 

 

Mobius Agent Juli Kidman had tasked you with finding the Core upon arrival at Union, though when you had arrived, things were much less violent. The streets were broken, and a few of the infected (previously inhabitants of Union) riddled the streets. At first, you had to admit you were more than a little excited, hardly afraid. You had been working at Mobius for at least two and a half years as a combat medic, but since the events of Beacon Mental Hospital in which Detective Sebastian Castellanos was reported dead and Detective Joseph Oda was reported missing, there was no need for you to be on the field. Then, it seemed you were given a purpose: to go into Union and take care of the other operatives that had been stuck there so that you could move to find the Core.

 

But now? You regretted accepting the task that Kidman had offered you. Maybe it was her smooth words and the way she made the assignment seem like a walk in the park. Maybe she unknowingly persuaded you with her pretty facial features, icy lilac eyes and a curved, smug grin that tugged at her lips. She was a muse, and it was more than easy for her to talk you into plunging your mind into a simulated town where death was imminent and real. Yeah, that must have been it. You had always been quick to notice the physical beauty of others. 

 

The salient noise of a circular blade being dragged along broken asphalt jarred you from your thoughts of the pretty Mobius agent and her smooth talk of in-and-out operations. Your brain was back in Union and you were frighteningly aware of the behemoth that patrolled the dilapidated streets, searching up and down for her prey: you. Her footsteps shook the earth, rattling your bones and sending a torrent of shivers up and down your spine. 

 

"Damn you, Kidman," you hiss breathlessly. 

 

How long had you been running anyway? Your lungs were on fire and your legs shook as they struggled to hold the rest of you up even in your kneeling position. Knees quaked, buckling. You struggled not to move, fearing that the slightest sound, the smallest movement against the leaves and branches, would alert the demon and lead her to your momentarily secure hiding place. The restless guardian of the streets paced up and down, unyielding on her search for you. You peer at her through the branches and leaves, watch her drag her daunting circular saw across the broken asphalt, sending sparks up and toward you. If she didn't kill you, then the foliage would catch fire and you would be forced from your hiding spot. Your fingers pry apart some leaves and twigs as your search for what could otherwise be considered as a hasty escape when you spot it: a red barrel just a few feet away from you and in the direct path of the monster's routinely patrolling. You studied her, watched her move like clockwork throughout the same streets in a big circle around the same building. She knew you were hiding nearby. It was only a matter of time before you would grow desperate and try to outrun her. 

 

Timing was key here. You had to wait for the perfect moment for her to come back around and walk by in front of the barrel so that you could shoot it and stun her long enough for you to make a hasty retreat under the cover of the explosion. That was it. A haphazard plan, but it was all you had. 

 

The scraping noise from the saw was enough to make you want to jump out of the bushes and make a mad dash for whatever shelter the town had left, which wasn't much; whatever wasn't broken down to the extent that you couldn't hide in it was locked by Mobius. No, you inhaled deeply and steadied your hand as you heard her approaching footsteps. She rounds a corner and you take aim for the barrel. Just a few more seconds. In a few of her long strides you could have her where you wanted her. 

 

Now. 

 

You stand, exposing yourself. You feel naked without the cover of the foliage and suddenly standing before the frightening beast is enough to make you falter for a few seconds. You get a good look at her now, she doesn’t attack you immediately. She has multiple heads, and her body is deformed, swollen in places and malnourished in some. She is at least four to five feet bigger than you. You know she can tear you apart on a whim, she wouldn’t struggle. She is almost immediately alerted by your presence. An eerie laugh shakes you to your core, but you steady your hand and pull the trigger—

 

— _click_. 

 

The gun stalls, trigger unyielding under your finger which curls faster and faster with each unyielding click of the weapon. Your panicked gaze moves from the barrel to the monster and down to the gun. She seems to be enjoying your struggles, she won’t move toward you, instead choosing to stand before you, giggling at your misfortune. Panicked eyes search for an answer for the disfunction of the weapon in your hand, but you can’t seem to find the answer, and the rattling of your heart in your bones further restricts your brain from working. 

 

Your gun was working fine earlier. Why now? _Why, why, why, why, why_?

 

You don’t stay in your scattered thoughts long enough to come up with a logical answer. A meaty hand finds its way around your throat and you’re scooped up into the air like a rag doll. A scream tries to tear itself from your throat, but the air is restricted and you can barely find it in yourself to breathe, much less scream. You do, however, kick like a madman. Your legs flail as the guardian runs toward the nearest wall with you in hand. Your flailing legs do little to nothing to help you in your unfortunate situation. You soon find yourself being pushed against a brick wall, feeling the foundation of it begin to crack beneath your body. All of the oxygen is ruthlessly ripped from your lungs, forcing you to clench your jaw so tightly you thought your teeth might break. The monster lets you fall down, your body hitting the broken cement with a hard thud. 

 

Watery eyes struggle to focus on the behemoth before you. Your vision is a blurred haze, but you can definitely make out the aberration lift her saw. Impending doom was staring you in the face; you knew it then that you would die, but, God, did you want to live. 

 

Certainly the monster would not be able to hear over the noise of the saw, but you cried out for her. You beg for your life with a tiny croak, “please.” Because you didn’t want to die. You had so much to give; you were the caregiver, without you, the others were ten times more likely to perish. You didn’t even want to live for yourself, you wanted to live for others, to take care of the others, to find the core and get her out of STEM. Was that too much to ask?

 

It seemed like too much. Your plea went unnoticed by the monster, because she was laughing in your face now, with the saw hovering a few feet above your limp body, which was useless to you now. Just a few more moments of life, you realized grimly, just a few seconds of your heart pumping quickly, your lungs inhaling and exhaling and your brain working to make sense of the last few seconds left of your short life. Your stubbornness makes you face the monster. If she was going to kill you, she was going to remember your teary-eyed yet somehow steely gaze staring back at her. 

 

She lowers the saw swiftly, you hold your breath, awaiting pain at any moment, but—

 

“My darling Guardian, that is enough.”

 

—the pain never comes. 

 

Instead, your gaze focuses narrowly on the saw before you, now hovering inches above your tummy. Tired eyes, struggling to stay open, seek the source of the voice, clad in a heavy accent. You don’t see the body that accompanies the voice of this male, but you definitely feel his presence. He is cold, freezing. Or maybe that’s just you. You can hardly keep your eyelids from shielding your eyes. If you could just sleep for a moment. That’s all you needed. Sleep for a few minutes. 

 

“Don’t you think you’ve tormented this young lady enough?” The voice asks again. 

 

With a laugh, you can feel the monster (you think her name is Guardian, which makes sense) take a few steps back, making room for the voice. You can only barely make out his blurred appearance, a well-dressed man with brown hair and a charming smile. He kneels on one knee before you, studying you. If you hadn’t had the wind knocked out of you, you might have said something to him, thanked him for saving your life or asking him how the monster yields to him when you had seen her tear some of the other operatives apart earlier. But you said nothing, just cried quietly, little groans of pain. You couldn’t move. 

 

“You are an unfinished masterpiece, my dear.” You can hear the man say. You want to ask him what he means, but again, you cannot speak. “Why don’t you come with me?” 

 

_O villain, villain, smiling, damnèd villain!_

 

You are suddenly aware of his arm dipping under the back of your knees and the other supporting your back as he scoops you up against his chest. Part of you wanted to fight back against him, tell him that he can’t just take you away like that without some kind of explanation as to who he is. He isn’t wearing a Mobius uniform, and from what you could see, most of the civilians had been killed off ages ago. Who was he? Why was he helping you? More importantly, how did he have such control over Guardian? 

 

“Who . . .?” You manage to croak, though it comes out slurred and tiny. You wonder if he even heard you. 

 

Every step he takes causes you discomfort, but you don’t think he can help this. The man scoffs, a smug little laugh. 

 

“My name is Stefano Valentini, darling.” He explains, though you know his name will slip by your mind in just a few moments. “Do not worry, I’ll take care of you now. Sleep, art.” 

 

_My tables!—Meet it is I set it down . . ._

 

Now, who are you to refuse? This man is giving you exactly what you were begging for just a few seconds ago. You were safe now, it seemed, you were alive and that was all that mattered. On top of that, his words were already lulling you to sleep. How could you say no when his voice was such a soothing sea of calm compared to the salient noise of the saw that was still buzzing in your ears? You wanted to. Part of you screamed to stay awake because you didn’t know this man, you didn’t know his intentions, what he wanted with you or why he had saved your life. 

 

That was the thing. You couldn’t. Your brain was heavy and his presence was oddly comforting. Even with a troubled mind, your fatigue got the better of you and you slept in the unusual comfort of the stranger’s arms. 

 

_That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain._


	2. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a soul  
> But felt a fever of the mad and played. . .
> 
> Hell is empty  
> And all the devils are here.

The prim music of violins enters your mind before you wake.

 

Your subconscious recognizes the music as Pyotr Tchaikovsky's _Serenade for Strings in C Major_ and the dramatics of the orchestra is what finally opens your eyes, almost as if the pulling of the strings is what forces you from the back of your subconscious and wakes your physical being, because you can feel the power in the music and you become one with the ironic tragedy of the violins. Part of you wants to remember what happened that landed you where you are now, on a cushioned surface and draped with a red silk sheet, but the fatigued part of your mind begs you to stay where you are. The surface on which you lay is so comfortable that you genuinely contemplate laying where you body had been set before you woke.

 

But you cannot assume that things are safe until you have made sure of that yourself.

 

The beginnings of a headache dance along your skull as you finally force yourself from the comfort of the silk cocoon in which you found yourself when you woke. It is when the sheet slides off of your skin that you can recognize why you feel so naked: your sturdy Mobius uniform—a head-to-toe set of clothing equipped with a bulletproof vest as well as your harnesses that carried medicinal necessities and your gun—has been replaced with a short, white and off-shoulder sundress. You scowl at the skimpy piece of fabric and wonder who could have possibly stripped you of the safety of your Mobius issued attire. The lack of weight from your harness makes you feel empty, and tiny.

 

Inevitably defenseless. A sitting duck.

 

Tired eyes scan the room you are in and make out a few scattered pieces of furniture: a long couch that you had been lain on, a small table on which a record player rests and a chair placed beside the couch, adjacent to your head. You can deduce from this that someone had been sat beside you, likely watching over your sleeping form. You find yourself wishing that there was a clock somewhere, but the walls consist of tremendous red curtains, not solid material. They shift slightly with a breeze that sweeps across the room. You shudder when you recognize that the world in that room is much different from the world outside; out there, the world is dark, warm and heavy with the musk of the Lost; outside you were airless, the atmosphere was stifling. Inside, in the little room, the air around you is free. The heavy scent of a man’s cologne remains, lingering before you so faintly you can hardly recognize it, though you feel you know it from another lifetime. Everything is tinted blue, like the horizons before a storm, and you feel cold, but not entirely unsafe. You shudder.

 

“Ah, you’re awake!”

 

A voice comes from your immediate right, making you turn toward it, startled. You almost instantly recognize the man as the person who had saved you from the clutches of the cruel beast.

 

And when it comes to mind that you had received several blows (that should have definitely been fatal) from the Guardian, you wonder how on earth you survived. Should you not be dead? Cheating death only lasted for so long, and the reaper would catch up with you soon. How much longer could you delay the inevitable? You had faced impending doom in the form of an amalgam of twisted bodies and giggling faces but a few hours ago (you didn’t even know if it had been that long), and you did not know the intentions of the charming man in the purple suit.

 

Where did he come from?

 

“You,” a shaky voice challenges the man. He blinks, smile unwavering. “You saved me. Why did you do that? Who changed my clothes? What was that thing and how did you have such control over it?”

 

The man, whose name you recall is Stefano, doesn’t step close to you as you corner yourself into the arm rest of the couch; you’re farther away from him now and he seems wise enough to keep a comfortable distance, though he eyes you with such unquenched marvel that makes you wonder exactly what his intentions are. In his presence, your morale wavers. Was dying at the hands of the Guardian such a bad idea now? You had wanted to live if only to be able to help the other agents of Mobius, as was your task. From the small room, you couldn’t do much of that and you were reverted back to your useless state. You couldn’t even defend yourself. Your gun was gone, and this man was significantly larger than you. Hand-to-hand combat was not given to combat medics (ironically) in an in depth setting. You had only been taught to block some hits and throw a couple good kicks and punches. Other than that, you were nothing but a soft target for oncoming predators. Meek prey.

 

“Fear not, darling,” Stefano continues. He dares to move forward only to set an old fashioned camera down on the chair that was adjacent to your head when you had barely been snatched from your dreamless sleep. One hand remains in his pocket, the other moving back up after he finishes placing the camera down, ever so gently. “I am not here to hurt you.”

 

“I’m not scared of you,” you fib, “what I want are answers. I want to know why you did what you did and answer everything I asked you or we’re gonna have a problem.”

 

Stefano blinks, but finally nods, much to your relief. “Very well. As I have already mentioned to you before, my name is Stefano Valentini. The beast out there, she is my creation. Her name is Guardian. That is why she obeyed my commands. Do not be wary of me, my dear. I did not have the indecency to undress you myself. I had my beautiful Obscura do that, she took very good care of you, as you can tell.” 

 

You frown. Your tired, pounding brain struggled to make sense of the information. Just as you had asked, he answered your questions save for one: why did he save you? You got the feeling that you didn’t want to know the answer to this question. What his intentions were with you are beyond you at this point, especially considering he had his assistant (Obscura?) change you out of your well-covered Mobius attire and into a skimpy dress.

 

You repeat, “Obscura.” Tired eyes follow Stefano’s pocketed hand and trace back down toward the camera. Maybe he had taken pictures of you while you slept. You scoff, as if that helped anything. If anything, that shook you even more. “Why did you have her change me out of my clothes? I felt much safer in my uniform. You took my gun too, and my medical aid kit.”

 

“You’re very perceptive.”

 

“Doesn’t take a lot of perception to realize that your defenses are gone.”

 

A moment of silence drifts between you two, but you never take your eyes off of him. His gaze moves from curtain to curtain, to the record player, down to his camera and finally back to you. Any sense of amusement remains in his bright eyes and this worries you. 

 

“I must confess—” 

 

“I’d appreciate the truth right now,” you interrupt, eyes hard as you study the poised man. He doesn’t seem offended by your aggressive intrusion. 

 

He smiles. “As I was saying, I must confess to you why I saved you: I am a photographer, as you can see. Art is my passion, and I have never been able to resist an unfinished work of art, such as yourself. At first, I was going to let Guardian slay you, because blood is much more beautiful than the subject itself, but when I saw your face, I thought I had to have you to myself. I didn’t want to witness such raw beauty destroyed. Can you imagine?—a form as breathtaking as yours filleted by a mindless beast!—I couldn’t have allowed it.”

 

A pause. Then, “as far as your uniform goes, it just wasn’t doing your beauty justice. I knew that under all of that negative, dark coverage was a beautiful model; therefore I had my Obscura change you into this dress. It is much more flattering.” 

 

“I hope you know that your explanation has done nothing but make me _that much_ more apprehensive of you, Stefano.” Explaining your suspicion of the man (you had every right to be suspicious of him. Had he mentioned blood being beautiful? Must be some art school bull that you didn’t understand), you cross your arms over your chest and force your spine further back into the armrest of the couch. You find yourself wishing that you could push yourself into the upholstery until you disappeared, but you remain in the dreaded existence that was Union and whatever room you found yourself in. 

 

You clear your throat after a pause. “Anyway, I have to go back out there. I’m the combat medic, you see, I have to take care of the others . . . so I’d appreciate it if I could get my uniform back.” 

 

“Oh, but, Flower, if you go out there you will surely perish.” Stefano contends. His once charming smile falters, turning into something of a pout. You are a sympathetic person, and his sudden display of dismay makes your chest tighten. “I just cannot have that. Wouldn’t that be a tremendous tragedy? Such a work of art, so much potential, torn to pieces by those heathens out there?” 

 

“Heathens? You mean to tell me that you didn’t make them yourself, like the Guardian?” You ask, addressing the existence of the Lost. 

 

Stefano shakes his head. “Goodness, no. My hands could never craft such sloppy work. Surely you’ve seen them, darling, those creatures are falling apart at the seem. Such poorly arranged designs.” 

 

“But you made the Guardian.” 

 

He concedes, “yes, I made her. Her purpose was to defend my palace: the theater.”

 

You bite your bottom lip and allow yourself to loosen up a tad bit. There was nothing about this man that screamed psychopath to you; then again, you weren’t Yukiko Hoffman (team psychologist) and you were less cynical than the rest of your team. When you had first joined Mobius, an ex-Black Ops demolitions specialist by the name of Esmeralda Torres had chided you upon your mention to her that you want to see the good in everyone: life wasn’t always good, and not a lot of people had pure intentions. You wondered how she was doing, but she always seemed like the kind of person you’d want to have in your corner in “end-of-the-world” scenarios. 

 

“She was more on the offense than defense. I think you need to rethink your strategies.” You frown. “How does someone gain this much power? You’ve crafted an amalgam of body parts, a circular saw and giggling faces and breathed life into her. I know that Union isn’t real, but I don’t know how someone could be able to possess such power unless they were harboring the Core.” 

 

Stefano smiles and sits down in the chair beside the couch after moving his camera. You can’t help but notice how gentle he is with the contraption, his fingers are slow with it, as if he were holding a newborn child. 

 

“Maybe some of us are destined to control things from within Union.” Stefano shrugs. “I could never answer your question. I was driven to create Guardian one night, and when I woke she was alive and under my control thereafter.” 

 

“This doesn’t scare you?” You ask. 

 

“No, why should it?” he pauses, then smiles, leaning forward with his elbows propping him up and his camera in his gentle hands between his knees. “Are _you_ afraid of it, my dear? Afraid of power?” 

 

“I’ve never taken well to authoritative figures,” you challenge. You lean forward, mirroring him, though your knees are closed. “You have to let me go, Stefano. Do you understand? I am a pivotal part of this mission, and it is critical that it is completed successfully.” 

 

Stefano returns back to his pout, but you harden your expression. No, you couldn’t allow yourself to falter like last time when your chest tightened at his dismay. This mission was your first official one with Mobius, and there was no way that a man you barely know (no matter how charming) is going to hold you back from what really matters: finding and extracting the Core. You lean back and look away from him. 

 

“It is not safe out there.” Stefano bids finally. “Can you not see that I can keep you safe here? None of those abominations will be able to lay their hands on you. I couldn’t allow it.” 

 

“It’s not your job to keep me safe,” you snap. “I thank you for saving my life, trust me, I couldn’t be more glad that I’m alive, but surviving that has only fueled my perseverance more. I have to go find the others so I can help them.” 

 

Beneath you, the foundation of the floor shakes. You look up, eyes catching the swinging chandelier above your head. Another earth quake. This marks the third one since your arrival at Union, and you knew that nothing good would be birthed from its arrival. From what you remembered last time, the buildings were shifting and more of those hellish creatures spawned from puddles of rot and flame. You had seen your fair share of abominations. From intelligent, zombie-like citizens of Union to abominations that wept and spewed vomit that melted their surroundings. You never tried to test them, choosing instead to stick to the shadows and the cover of the foliage. 

 

“This world is shifting once more,” Stefano says, reading your mind. “Come, I must show you something. Perhaps this will convince you to stay.” 

 

Stefano holds a hand out for you. His smile is pleasant, though you can sense some ironic sadness in it. Your eyes study his extended, gloved hand before you and you genuinely consider batting his hand away and standing on your own, but you don’t. There is something alluring about this man, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. It wasn’t superficial: not his charming expression, impressive stature, alluring accent and pleasant verbiage. 

 

Regardless of what it was, you took his hand and allowed him to help you to your feet. He doesn’t let go of your hand after that. 

 

__________

The ground is cold beneath your bare feet, and you question why this man had chosen not to provide shoes, or at least let you keep your combat boots, but something tells you that his answer would run along the lines of “the complexity of your design would be ruined by such bulky footwear.” 

 

Stefano leads you through winding staircases, empty hallways with morbid (yet somehow oddly beautiful) photographs hanging from their walls, and finally through rooms with furniture covered with white sheets. You try to study everything, but Stefano is moving too quickly, eyes frozen on what is in front of him as he leads you through the theater. You wonder what he’s doing, where he’s leading you and why there is so much fortitude in his confident stride. 

 

“Where are you taking me?” 

 

“Somewhere I hope will convince you to stay. This—this _insanity_ , darling, is something no human can bare alone.” 

 

You raise a brow though he can’t see you and shake your head, allowing yourself to be practically dragged through the seemingly winding maze that was the theater. You can’t help but wonder what life was like in Union before things went haywire. You could already picture people gathering around and sitting themselves in the seats to watch some old-fashioned play like Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_ , or _The Tempest_. 

 

Now all that remained were dusty red seats and residual memories. 

 

“Here.” Stefano says suddenly, stopping dead in his tracks. You almost run into his back, but stop yourself quickly enough to keep your nose from poking his back. 

 

He lets go of your hand for the first time, and the sudden coldness you feel from the lack of his hand on yours makes you frown involuntarily. Your eyes move from your now empty hand back up to Stefano who was standing rather ominously before a set of double glass doors. Outside, the darkened sky looked ablaze even through big clouds and heavy plumes of dark smoke, but the rest of the world was cut off by the ends of the broken, white marble balcony. He pries open both doors, but they swing back toward him with the wind. He steps back and looks toward you.

 

“This is why I cannot let you leave.”

 

You study Stefano first, feet glued to the floor. It’s almost as if your legs have ceased to function and you knew why. You were unwilling to admit that the reason you can’t move is not because you are afraid of what you’ll face, but because you were afraid Stefano was right and your mission would be held on a perpetual halt. What would the others do? You thank God (though you’re not so sure if you can believe in a god anymore) that they had prior training and were more than capable individuals.

 

Finally gathering some courage, you swallow back bitter bile that rises when the stench of rot hits your airways and step forward slowly. Step by step by step you approach the balcony which you were sure was once a getaway for couples enjoying the nightly breeze and a full moon and starry nights. Now? It was dilapidated, broken down by the wear of the war against Union. Your hazy vision moves from obliterated cars to an innumerable amount of Lost and finally back to the fires everywhere. They were spawning in almost all locations, nowhere was safe. You see the Hysterics, Lament and Lost. Union is eviscerated, there is little to nothing left. You hope your teammates are safe.

 

“Oh my God,” you breathe, stepping back involuntarily.

 

You are stopped as your back comes into contact with Stefano’s chest. His hands move up to your arms, steadying you.

 

“Do you see now? Do you see why you must stay?” He asks against your hair. 

 

_Not a Soul  
_ _But felt a fever of the mad and played . . ._

 

“My teammates are out there . . .” you cry outwardly, turning to face Stefano. For the first time in a long time, you cry.

 

He shakes his head and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around your trembling body. He shushes you and you can feel his breath against the top of your head. Somehow his presence is comforting, but you can’t help but weep into his shirt, dampening the purple fabric of his suit.

 

“Do not cry, darling.” Stefano pacifies.

 

You bite your lip and tense against him. You don’t want him to let go. 

 

_Hell is empty  
_ _And all the devils are here._

 

“I will keep you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry for the delay~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are appreciated, and constructive-criticism is encouraged :) This is just a shameless romance with Stefano that may or may not have a good ending. Thanks again! :)


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